


The Duke || Home

by iamnotanegg



Category: David Bowie (Musician)
Genre: Drabble, F/M, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-30 11:53:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10162496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamnotanegg/pseuds/iamnotanegg
Summary: The Duke and a place called 'Home'.





	

**Author's Note:**

> In lieu of certain tragic events, I've decided to channel this flush of angst through writing.  
> A drabble of sort that may turn into a story if I ever had the time to write more of it.  
> I like it so far so, I just might.

And like all things black and white in the life of the Thin White Duke, nothing has changed. Crimson drapes remained heavy against polished floors that lacked attendance. The air thickened by its master’s abstinence and the sheets were of the same sullen fashion as it was months ago. Flowers had not bloomed and dust had stripped the furniture of their pristine stature; the roots had outgrown their pots and wilted. The house is a mess; an empty, eerie, quiet mess with untouched plates and barely closed windows with aged fags idle on foggy panes. 

Nothing has changed; all is still as barren as they were. Nothing but a solitary confinement that had lavish seats and comfy beddings. Nothing but minimalistic wallpapers and expensive paintings that would easily be forgotten at the turn of the knob. And so it will; for another door that closes, another one opens.

But not all doors are as good as the one before. In fact, the next one may lead to something even far worse.

Defeated, David sits quietly on the floor and rests his head against the door. For a moment, his eyes would close and feel the strain along his neck; the pain of abstinence and betrayal of senses as tears would flow without consent. Brows would meet not in disgust, but in sorrow. Lips would quake and reverberate a cry not out of unabashed pleasure from leather crops and scented wax, but that of an actual plea of remorse and failure. 

His chest would ache not at the smack of gloves or ropes against flesh bare and in heat, but that of the heart’s feebleness. Feebleness to commit and fight for what may be a chance at forever; a chance at love everlasting. Feebleness to swallow pride as he would men on nights promiscuous and irrelevant; feebleness to devour flaws as he would women on equally wanton and inapt evenings. Feebleness that had distanced himself from acceptance and strength of apology. Feebleness to love; feebleness to live.

And on a such cold and desolate night, none other than the warmth of his own palms catered to eyes dampened with remorse. None other than the fading ember of his cigarette lit the darkness of the bleak and gloomy abode he calls home. 

Not a ring from the phone or a buzz from his beeper came about. Not a post through the slot or a note on the fridge; not a soul, not even his. 

And as eyes hollowed of emotions would fall to sight, the walls would rise a feet higher. The fortress grows strong with each piece of him that falls into his mighty oubliette; a place where you put people to forget about. A place where broken heart goes to be liberated of the filthy hands of a conceited muse who knows nothing of love.

David pulls his knees together, embracing them as he would himself. He hides himself from an unknown audience that mocks his inability to succeed in this silly game of love. Yes, a game; a game of who can drown themselves in a sorrowful pool of alcohol only to rise victorious with a renewed pair of lungs. Lungs anxious for that white, magical powder of life known to man as the ‘fountain of youth’; of white light, white heat. A game by which the prize is one’s very own pantheon where all could worship and suck him dry of his heavenly substance of fame, power, and glory. 

A game by which heathens would see God in him.

He cries in silence; afraid of the blinding flashes that had caused distortion in the once peaceful universe of planets, stars and rocket ships. He cries in silence in fear of drowning in a sea of starved hands eager to rip him to shreds at the slightest error. He cries in fear of judgement; in fear of not being any different from those who remained falling. He cries in fear of not surviving; he cries in fear of himself. 

He cries.  
In fear.


End file.
